Green Eyes, Green Skirts and the Thrill of a Dance
by Polly Little
Summary: "Ambassador" Antonio's boring evening is interrupted by the arrival of Alice (nyo England), a revolutionary on the run from the guards. Faking a relationship to save her from certain execution is one thing, but could they actually be falling for each other? Prequel to Dragons, Honour, and a Good Pair of Boots.


_Approximately three hundred years before Dragons, Honour, and a Good Pair of Boots_

 _Central Tzachenburg_

"Here's how it works. You pretend I'm your date, and I don't get us both thrown out on our ears."

Antonio stares down at the human woman invading his hiding place in shock, noting her flushed cheeks and crumpled dress. She glares right back, green eyes flashing with impatience and at total contrast to their elegant surroundings, although her silhouette in the archway is twice as regal as the princess this ball is being held for with her hands on her hips and her head held high with a fierce jut to her chin that commands something in Antonio to stand to 's older than he'd expect for someone in such an undignified hurry; probably just coming up to middle aged (although his timescales are a little off when it comes to humans), so roughly – which is a good word to describe her – similar to Antonio himself.

"Well?"

He blinks. "What?"

She huffs in frustration, then repeats herself, her expression clearly showing she can't believe she's condescending to speak to him. "You pretend I'm your date, and I defend my people from the Nørktzach invaders, and, more importantly for you, don't ruin your fancy evening. Understood?"

"Yes, but-"

She begins to roll her eyes, then stops with a sharp intake of breath that affects Antonio more than he'd like.

"Quick," she hisses, one silver gloved hand flying to his chest and pulling him closer in a way that would be intimate if they were any of the other couples sequestered in the alcoves dotted around the palace. "I'm Alice, and you're the love of my life."

Antonio chuckles, flattered despite himself. "Antonio, and I have to say I'm delighted."

Alice's red cheeks look more infuriated than infatuated, but she freezes in his arms and he knows that the guards have to be close.

"Pretend you can't keep your eyes off of me," she whispers as the tap of the guard's boots draw closer.

That shouldn't be hard, he thinks, blushing slightly at the realisation it's the truth. The soft grey of her dress would look cheap if cut in the traditional, shoulderless and many layered Tzachen style, but the cut of the cloth is harsher in its accentuation of Alice's admittedly short neck and around her bodice, and so somehow more delicate in its fall from her waist to the ground, and the deep green of her bustle (in this day and age!) and underskirt makes the salmon pinks and lemon yellows of the gowns around them look almost garish. The dress is long enough that it makes even the brief flash of skin between the sleeves and the long gloves indiscreet; concealing enough that everything seems revealed. The satin looks thicker than his own silk shirt – designed for a warmer climate – and Antonio wonders where Alice appeared from. Yorravon, maybe? It would certainly fit the smiling clipped edges of her accent, and the refreshing lack of reverence for one of the Greater Folk; Tzachenburg still seems to ran on some form of feudal system of Greater Folk over Younger Folk over humans over Lüg, much to his disgust. Her honey blonde hair being pinned back into the traditionally human style of a bun does nothing to dissuade the notion, and it's confirmed when he spots the Lug-metal hairpiece keeping it there – Yorravon has two of the only Lüg communities outside Tundris, the others being in Couerais (a Rosh country surprisingly far south for the Lüg), and in Jokinuz (a small Butz fishing nation just over the Tzachen border) – a comb that every so often Alice reaches for, as if checking it's still there, with one elegant finger that Antonio can't help but follow with his eyes.

Antonio notices her quirked eyebrows and realises he's been staring.

"I-" he blurts.

"That's twice I've made you speechless in as many minutes," Alice muses, with a mischievous glint in her eye that makes him want to take a step backwards, regardless of how many battles he's seen, and firmly leads him out of the alcove with her hand on his elbow. "Imagine what would happen if I was trying."

"Let's not find out," he murmurs, pulling her into a dip and trying to regain his composure with all the Seelie charm his mother taught him.

"Oh, I think we should." She bats her eyes at him from beneath him almost mockingly, and Antonio feels a thrill of fear go down his spine that has nothing to do with his admittedly nerve-wracking job as Hillañol ambassador. "After all, who knows-"

There's an awkward sounding cough behind them, and Antonio almost drops Alice in shock. Fortunately for her, she throws her arms around his neck, just in time to save herself from an untimely fate against the polished marble floor as Antonio turns to see the speaker.

"Kirk," intones the guard, a white haired, abnormally thin Halfling with blank purple eyes and overzealously polished embossed silver armour, and the pale hair and deeply ridged traditional scarring of a member of the Yiczkan clan.

"Steilsson," Alice says in the same apathetic tone, lazily defiant despite her graceless situation. "Such a pleasant surprise."

"Indeed," Steilsson says, clearly implying it is anything but. "What brings you here?"

"The same as usual, Nørktzach," Alice says, disengaging one hand from its stranglehold around Antonio's neck to pat her hair back.

"Fleecing innocent gentlemen of their valuables?" Steilsson says in a remarkably deep voice for someone so young looking, not even acknowledging the slur.

"And ladies, of course," Alice counters her shoulders stiffening defensively though her voice remains unbothered.

"Of course," Steilsson remarks coldly in a neutral, almost bored voice; his eyes raking over Antonio in a way that almost makes him feel ashamed. "And would this be one such… gentleman?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, feeling more than a little out of the loop.

"You don't?" Steilsson raises an eyebrow meaningfully, and Antonio realises how it must look – especially for an elf and a human – being wrapped around each other while sequestered in this lonely corner of the ballroom.

Antonio cringes uncomfortably, and he and Alice jump apart from their compromising position – with flushed cheeks and unnecessarily guilty looking grimaces – to a more respectable distance, although Alice still has one hand wrapped so tightly around his elbow that her already pale knuckles are beginning to turn white. "I – um – **I don't** – don't – **I don't know** – that is to say, I don't think I know what you mean?"

He eventually regains the swagger of his speech, but his brief retreat into the more familiar pattern of Hillañol has already done enough damage that even his easy confidence can't repair it.

"You don't?" Steilsson's smirk – especially matched with Alice's amused chuckle – only adds to Antonio's desperate desire to sink into the ground, but he holds his head high even so.

"No, I don't," he declares haughtily, with all the aloofness expected of an elven prince, despite his red cheeks.

A heavy silence settles over the trio like chainmail, constricting and awkward, yet strangely fragile all the same. It lasts maybe half a minute at most, but it's still long enough that Antonio becomes aware of Alice's vicelike fingers and the dandelion brush of her hair against his cheek. It's silent, and Antonio hates silence.

It was Alice who finally broke it.

"If you have nothing better to do than gossip, _Captain,_ then I suggest you best leave." The frosty steel of her voice brooks no dissent, and – with a slightly disgruntled expression that on anyone else would surely have been a scowl and a muttered "sharp-tongued slattern" tossed over his shoulder – Steilsson takes his leave.

Alice smooths her skirts down with a practiced air, then turns back to Antonio with an mischievous dimple at the corner of her mouth that takes his breath away for a second.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Of course I did."

She smirks, and the sight makes Antonio chuckle. "Of course you did."

Then Alice moves to walk away, and while he's barely known her longer than ten minutes, and it was less than five before she got the Guards involved, Antonio hates to see her leave. His breath catches in his throat slightly, and though it's too quick for human ears to pick up on, Alice must have some sixth sense, because she turns around, her earrings tinkling as they cascade over her shoulders, and says in Hillañol, " **¿I can stay one dance more, if you like?"**

It's not quite a question the way she says it, more a command than an invitation, and her accent breaks itself on the softer vowels, but something in Antonio curls up with delight to hear her speaking his language.

" **I'd like that very much,"** he replies in tentative Yorrva, and offers his hand.

A faint tinge of shock colours those green eyes before Alice smiles, takes his hand, and leads him into the ballroom proper, where the music begins just as they step onto the gleaming wooden floor as if the ball had been frozen waiting for their arrival.

"Ready?" She pulls his hands to her shoulders.

"Ready," he says, and they begin.

Tzachen dances are just as quick as Hillañol dances – all flashing feet and imperious gestures – though less about the dancers' sense of rhythm than their grasp of technique. Neither of them quite know the steps, but that doesn't stop them enjoying making it up as they go along; Alice treading on his toes and Antonio pulling her much farther across the room than strictly necessary.

They eventually get the hang of it, falling into a natural rhythm that doesn't look anything like the expected pattern, but fits the music and blends their two cultures together. Alice laughs delightedly as she spins, shimmering grey skirts flaring out around her like the wings of a dove, and though she isn't the most attractive woman in the room by a long shot, Antonio has never seen anyone more beautiful.

The promised dance is over far too soon, and – panting slightly – Alice pulls him side of the room.

"Who would have thought an ambassador would dance like a prince?" she teases him.

His smile is embarrassed at first, remembering his awful dancing, but then changes to something more wistful as he wishes he were just a simple ambassador so he could follow Alice away to her rebellion without neglecting his duties to Hillaña, but for now he knows that could never be. There's too much at stake for him to gallivant off following dreams of saving the world; the best he can do for now is to steer his own government in the right direction.

"Who would have thought a thief would dance like a noblewoman?" He teases back.

"I'm not a thief," she protests, although Antonio doesn't notice the thin veil of worry clouding her green eyes.

"Then how do you explain –" he accuses, pausing for sheer theatrics "– the way you stole my heart?"

She rolls her eyes at the awful joke, but he can see her smiling, and that counts as a victory in his book. For a moment, everything is perfect; his hand on her arm, her hair brushing against his cheek. Then she catches sight of the clock mounted high on the wall above the daias, and her face changes into something more professional as she surreptitiously hands him a letter, to any curious bystander looking as if she's handed him her gloves while she kneels to relace her slippers.

"Give this to your cousin."

He looks down. The grainy texture of the parchment envelope coupled with the dusty, goldshot blue wax of the seal leaves him in no doubt that it's from Yorravon, and the crest impressed on the seal… there is only one family with a charging unicorn for an emblem. He'd already known Alice had connections from the costly material of her dress, but to this extent? He'd never have guessed in a century that Alice was a courier for the Tunaivian parliament. He's a little hurt at how hard he's fallen for a persona that no doubt isn't actually the real Alice, but Antonio supposes it was the easiest way to contact him (even if he'd thought it was real, even if he already knows he'll be haunted by those green eyes for years).

"How did you know to find me?" he mutters, trying not to draw attention.

"You and I both know that there is no love lost between the peoples of Hillaña and those of Tzachenburg." She winks, pecks him on the cheek, and before he manages to react to the mixed signals she's sending him, he's left staring at the gloves in his hands as she flits away into the crowd.

))))))0((((((

Much later that evening, the stars are just beginning to sink beyond the horizon and the last few stragglers from the ball are stumbling into their carriages through the twilit drizzle. Antonio is preparing to sleep, uniform neatly folded in the wardrobe as he relaxes into his pyjamas, and shoes kicked, much less carefully, under the bed.

He's already made plans to leave the next morning, citing a nonexistent family emergency, and Alice's letter – no, _the_ letter – is safely stashed in the false bottom of his trunk. He hadn't known what to do with the gloves, but after an embarrassing amount of uncertain dithering they'd ended up folded on the bureau.

He yawns, ignoring the slight shift of shirt buttons as he stretches, and clambers into bed made clumsy by exhaustion, his head full of green eyes and blonde hair and ridiculously wrong dance steps.

He's just about to drift off when there's a knock against the window. Antonio falls out of bed with a bone-shaking thud to see Alice's face like a ghost on the balcony, and for a moment he thinks he's dreaming. After a second of confused hesitation – wondering why she's at his window wearing a sodden shirt, trousers and worried expression – he opens the balcony doors and lets her in.

Alice doesn't bother with a greeting.

"My gloves," she pants, cheeks as red as the first time they met and framed by her wet hair. "I can't leave them, my father-"

"Here." He bends to collect them from where they lay folded on the bureau, and pretends he can't feel Alice's eyes tracing over him, unexpectedly confident despite the thin cotton of his pyjamas.

"Thank you," she says, and her face breaks into a wider smile than he'd think necessary over a simple pair of gloves. "Thank you."

"Not a problem." His eyes follow a bead of water, shimmering like silk as it traverses the curve of her cheek and along the knife-edge of her jaw. Her white shirt, translucent from the rain and beginning to cling to her now she's in the warmth of his room, has started to fray at the sleeves, and a thread catches in her hair as she wipes away the water, trailing along her face for a second before she bites it off. Just as before, he can't keep his eyes off of Alice, but this time they're alone in his bedroom and it feels a thousand times more intimate now.

She turns to go, gloves tucked safely into a pouch on her hip, and Antonio knows that this is the only chance he'll get. He grabs her hand, marvelling for a moment at how tiny she really is; this formidable, fragilely human woman with the arrogance of a battleship and the poise of a stallion.

"Antonio-"

"Alice-"

Their eyes meet, shining jewels of colour in the dark room, and suddenly neither of them are quite sure what they were going to say. The air seems loaded with tension, and the burn of unsaid words echoes through the air between them like the sparks of a bonfire.

"I can't stay," she warns him, but he can see her mind leaping through the consequences in the furrow of her brow and the twist of her lips.

"Neither can I," he says, gesturing towards the already packed trunks in the corner of the ambassador's suite.

She bites her lip as she considers the unspoken offer, tilting her head back ever so slightly to let herself look down on him – a habit he doubts she even knows she has – and clearly, she must like what she sees, because –

"Alright," she says softly, unclasping her cloak and folding it over the armchair – methodical even now. "I'll stay tonight."

Antonio blinks, and then Alice is dizzyingly close. He can feel her smile as they press together, all sharp toothed glee while its warmth seeps into his tanned skin as she pushes him backwards towards the bed. His fingers tangle in her hair, his legs tangle into her legs, everything coming together in a glorious implosion of desire. She's dizzyingly close, achingly close, and all he can think of is that teasing smirk and the slight sting of her hands in his hair trying to pull him into her, trying to bring them together as if they were one being. He kisses Alice again and again, and he knows it's fanciful but her lips taste of sunlight and crisp spring mornings, as bittersweet as apple wine and no less intoxicating.

She pulls away, but remains close enough that he can count the scattering of freckles beneath those fine blonde eyelashes as she frees herself from her soaked shirt, their legs still intertwined, before pulling him back towards her with a passion that surprises him.

He pauses for breath, drunk on her lips and the feel of her skin, and the sight of her is more than Antonio can take.

"Gods, you're amazing," he says softly, meaning every word.

Alice smiles, as if she were merely waiting for his confirmation of something she considers obvious, and her words are warm against his ear as Alice breathes, "You're incredible."

Calloused fingers caress the pointed tips of his ears, making him shudder involuntarily.

"You're gorgeous," Alice whispers, fingers tracing along his jawbone and over the curve of his throat, hips shifting into him forcefully enough that he moans slightly, and Alice's conceited delight ripples down his spine as she kisses the hollow of his neck.

"You're absolutely beautiful," she murmurs, resting her head against his shoulder while her arms snake their way around his waist.

"And I think…" she trails off, the rest of the sentence too low for Antonio to hear. A shadow crosses her face, and though he's curious, he knows that if she wanted to talk about it, she would, and he wouldn't dream of forcing her into false intimacy.

She swallows, and he suddenly wonders if she's homesick. He feels lonely enough even with the ability to travel home with a few days notice, but Alice is on a mission, and can't even speak of her home country too openly without being clapped in irons. For Antonio, such a situation would be unthinkable.

He pulls the covers over them with one arm, and uses the other to card a hand through her hair, humming a song he'd once heard on a long ago visit to Yorravon and hoping the familiarity will soothe her. There's nothing sensuous about it, but it feels somehow more personal than their previous… distractions.

She laughs drowsily, and Antonio wonders how he improved her mood so quickly.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just…" Alice has to break off to yawn, and he can't help but huff with amusement. "I've never heard the warsong of Green Alyss used as a lullaby before."

Antonio can feel his skin tingle with embarrassment. "Oh. I didn't know, sorry."

Antonio stops humming, and the disjointed sound of their hearts beating in contrast echoes like a curse in a temple.

"No, I – I didn't mean stop!" Her hand fumbles for his face in the dark. "It was sweet."

He begins again, and she sighs in contentment, leaning into him with a gentle smile playing about her mouth.

They fall asleep this way, feeling safe in each other's arms. Antonio wakes up to see Alice's honey blonde hair splayed out on the pillow and tangling into his own dark curls, and the sight of her sleepstained smile fills him with warmth. Asleep, she looks more vulnerable than he'd have expected – the night before she was as sharp as a sword and as fierce as an untamed firework – and he feels responsible for her in this peaceful moment before first light.

She shifts slightly, rolling away from him, and he immediately pretends to still be asleep while she wakes, a little embarrassed to be caught like this.

She slides out of bed and pads over to where her cloak lies on a nearby chair, shaking out the folds of the night before in a ripple of emerald material and sliding put an object too small for him to see clearly from a pocket. Then, glancing back almost nervously at the bed, she swings the cloak over her shoulders in one fluid motion like the swell of a wave. Against the golden glow of the dawn through the window, hair shimmering in the sun and her face with its usual proud fierce light, she almost looks like one of the **Phantasma del Sol** (or Sun Spirits) of Hillañol legend.

As she stands looking down at the object in her hands, a frown flickering over her eyebrows, it dawns upon Antonio that Alice was planning her exit. He yawns exaggeratedly, and pretends to wake up – he can't let he leave without saying something, although he doesn't quite yet know what that _something_ might be.

He shakes the dreams out of his head with another ridiculous yawn, and "realises" the bed is empty.

Alice?" His voice is croaking from being up so early, but he tries not to let any of his worried suspicion creep in, just a bleary sleepiness.

"Antonio!" She jumps, and drops the object she just fetched from her cloak pocket.

"Alice?" He repeats, a touch more confused this time.

"Antonio," Alice sighs, shoulders sinking, and he can see her defenses go up with that one breath in. Even so, she looks more as if she's anticipating his reaction to something than guilty, and Antonio relaxes a little.

"Are we just going to keep repeating our names all morning?" Antonio asks.

She laughs, but there's an edge to it; one he'd noticed the night before, but one he'd noticed melting during their dance.

"Antonio… Alice! Antonio… Alice!" He teases, putting on a ridiculously deep voice in place of his own, and a breathy, higher one for hers.

"My voice is _not_ that high," she scoffs, smiling slightly.

"No, but mine is," he shoots back, in his normal voice, then, while flinging himself melodramatically across the bed, changes to the higher one to say "Oh, Alice! You divine goddess! You make my heart feel like a quivering cauliflower!"

The last phrase is too much for the pair of them, and they shatter into proper throat-aching laughter.

When Alice finally regains her breath, it's to splutter "quivering cauliflower!" and that sets them off again. It's a good few minutes before either can meet the other's eyes without dissolving into giggles, and Antonio realises how far – how ridiculously, heartstoppingly far – he's fallen for Alice in the night he's known her.

Eventually, though, Alice gives a final huff of laughter and asks, "Quivering cauliflower?", clearly wanting an explanation.

Antonio shrugs. "It was the only thing I knew that struck me as particularly Yorrav."

She stares at him for a good few seconds, before bursting into snickers again.

Antonio wishes they could stay like this for the rest of the morning with his awful jokes and her trying not to laugh, but footsteps from outside the bedroom put them both on edge as they draw near.

There's a knock at the door. Antonio sits up, trying to flatten his hair into something presentable. " **Mr Fernandez-Carriedo?"**

" **I'll be out in a minute",** he replies in Hillañol, making sure to sound sufficiently exhausted.

There's a pause, during which Antonio begins to consider all sorts of bizarre hiding places for Alice – under the bed, on top of the wardrobe, behind the curtains – before the footsteps retreat. Antonio heaves a sigh of relief, and turns to share it with Alice, but she's already unlocking the balcony doors.

"Alice-" he starts, then stops. He doesn't know what to say to persuade her to stay; doesn't know what to say to persuade himself that she should stay; she has to leave eventually, and now is as good as any other time. Even so, he wants her to stay, wants her to travel back to Hillaña with him though he knows it's ridiculous.

"Oh, we're back to that, are we?" She laughs, but there's an undercurrent of something heavier.

He gets out of bed, and walks across the room to her, trying to find the words he needs to explain to her exactly how he feels. It's difficult, the most difficult thing he's ever done, and the language barrier only makes it harder. There's no point to telling her how beautiful she is – it's too cliché, and besides, it's obvious she already knows. It's equally foolish to consider confessing how she was the first spark of life in his entire shift in Tzachenburg and the only reminder of why he agreed to represent his country in the first place – he is grateful, grateful beyond words, but he doesn't want to guilt her into staying. In the end, there's only one thing he wants, and it's impossible, so he asks for the next best thing instead.

"Take care of yourself," he says gently, and he's pleased that there's no blame in his voice as he says it and bends down to kiss her, only love and a faint hope to someday see her again soon. "If you're ever in my area, you'll know where to find me. I'll be the one swooning as delicately as a cabbage."

He'd hoped to coax another laugh from her, but all he gets is a faint smile as she leans into his chest.

She sighs, gripping his shirt tightly as she hugs him, then pulls away, looking as serious as ever.

"Here." Voice heavy with regret and something else he can't quite name, she hands him a crumpled piece of parchment, fingers curling over it as if it burns them to part with it, and already he can see her planning an exit. "This should help you – you, Antonio, _only_ you, and you have to promise me you'll only try it if you're absolutely desperate – if the Tzachen get too… intimidating."

Apparently satisfied, she turns to go.

Antonio blinks, with a slight feeling of déjà vu.

"I don't understand-" he begins.

"No, you don't understand much, do you?" Alice teases with a flicker of a fond smile.

She quickly presses a kiss to his cheek, then vaults over the balcony railing, the vivid green of her cloak a stain against the soft peaches and lilacs of the dawn sky.

He looks down at the yellowed parchment. Rather than an address,name of household, or any other way of contacting her, the note Alice has left him only has a few lines of spidering Jokunn symbols, and he knows it very well might be the last he'll see of her.

Antonio closes his eyes, and remembers the taste of her lips, the vivid green of her eyes a stain burnt into the back of his eyelids.

 **A/n: Hopefully you can see the connectio** **n between this and the other story, but if not, all will become clear eventually! Just wait for the next installment. Happy Valentine's Day!**


End file.
